


Tailor Made

by a_lister_top_hat



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Caretaking, Comfort/Angst, Developing Relationship, Doctor/Patient, F/F, Falling In Love, Self-Esteem Issues, Sister-Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-09-30 21:24:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_lister_top_hat/pseuds/a_lister_top_hat
Summary: "She strides to the end of the corridor and opts for the stairs over the elevator, climbing down the four flights two steps at a time, her long legs carrying her quickly and effortlessly to the bottom and out the back door of the hospital. Her car is parked only yards away, a perk of having worked enough hours to have “Chief” in your title. She tosses her purse onto the passenger seat, powers up the car and checks her phone. Another text, this one causing a flush to pass over her cheekbones. Without a second thought, she steers the Tesla towards downtown, suddenly craving a cocktail with a view. On the radio, an anxious newscaster is at the tail end of reporting on a severe traffic mashup involving a limo and three other vehicles. Multiple injuries, some serious. The location, she notes, within the sphere of Walker."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing fiction of any kind. Gentleman Jack is so inspirational, and after watching the episodes tens of times, reading all the Anne Lister books I could get my hands on, and endlessly scrolling through the GJ Twitter feeds, I still find myself thinking about the character of Anne Lister. So, this story is mostly an outlet for my obsession at the moment. It's fun to imagine Anne in modern times, all that big gay energy we love unleashed and unharnessed. Hope you enjoy the read, and apologies upfront if it takes me a while to add more.

She drapes her suit jacket over the back of the chair and plops down behind her desk, grateful to be off her feet after a grueling twelve-hour shift. She’s tired, but there’s an ample amount of pride amidst the exhaustion. She’s worked hard to earn the placard on her office door: Dr. Anne Lister, Chief of Neurology. Eight years of schooling across two states, six years of residency in a third, followed by another eight years spent here in Columbus at Walker Memorial Hospital. It feels like she hasn’t had a proper night of sleep since the summer after graduating high school.

After making a mental note to follow up on the carotid artery endarterectomy patient first thing, Anne leans back in her chair and closes her eyes, willing the day’s slideshow of x-rays and MRI scans to come to a standstill in her mind. She takes several deep breaths - in through her nose, pause, slowly out through parted lips – a yoga technique she utilizes often to bring herself back to center, back on balance. Signing up for a Vinyasa class on a whim her sophomore year of undergrad turned out to be one of the best decisions she’s ever made. Her daily practice keeps her loose, lean and able to transition from one task to another with intention. Not to mention it led her to Mariana – Mary, M - the main lady of her life thus far.

After a minute her heart starts to beat a slower cadence, and she knows she can go on. She opens her eyes and thumbs through her purse looking for one of the protein bars she keeps stashed inside to see her through to dinner. She has another hour of paperwork to do before she can go home, eat a proper meal with Marian and pass out unceremoniously on the couch.  
Thank goodness for Marian, she thinks, as she awakens her computer monitor and slides on her glasses to churn through the less glamorous side of her job. Stable and caring, her sister has been there for her through the grind, making sure there’s food in the fridge, reminding her to rest and take time for herself when she most needs it. They may not always get along, but Anne can’t deny the close bond they’ve cultivated since losing Aunt Anne and their last tie to home. Anne’s relentless energy and drive to exceed is grounded by her sister’s content to live life at the middle rung: a tailor at Jos A. Bank in Arlington, she mostly alters men’s pants and suit jackets. A veritable skill, truthfully, and one she didn’t have to break the family bank to acquire. Anne’s wardrobe benefits handsomely to boot. Each one of her suit pieces is perfectly tailored to her, hugging and falling away in all the right places.

Anne can be careless, reckless even when she’s living life at full tilt. In med school, she’d treat her friends to a dressy evening dining and imbibing when she could barely afford her rent. Now that money isn’t a concern, she’s likely to neglect letting Marian know she’s going out with colleagues after work, leaving her to worry all night and then forgetting to close the front door when she finally manages to stumble through it at 3 am.

On one such occasion, a stray cat took advantage of the situation and took up residence at the top of their stairs. It never left and now has a collar with “Hinscliff” inscribed on a tag around its neck. Anne chuckles to herself remembering how her sister tried to usher the opportunist orange tabby out of the house with a broom before resorting to jumping and screaming at it. None of her tactics convinced the cat to vacate, so two nights later Anne made a stop at the pet shop and brought home a bag of cat food in addition to the lemon chicken Marian requested from their favorite Chinese takeout.

They’d sat on the floor together, their backs against the couch eating straight from the waxy box containers, chopsticks clacking as they lifted noodles and chunks of glazed meat to their mouths. Hinscliff was sprawled out across the middle cushion, purring happily behind them, already bullish in his assuming the furniture of the house was put there for his enjoyment alone. What year was that? 2005? 2006? She remembers that Marian had allowed her to pick the TV program that night. She landed on an episode of The L Word, a guilty pleasure, and Marian had to endure Anne obsessing over Bette and Tina, lamenting the fact that it never seemed that easy with her relationships.

Her phone chimes, snapping her back to the present. It’s Marian, wondering when she’ll be home. Anne sends back a quick text: “45 minutes?” She sets her mind to the task in front of her, answering an email from hospital board member Eliza Priestley regarding an upcoming fundraising event. Eliza needs Anne to confirm her speech on behalf of the Walker Memorial Foundation and to make sure most of her senior staff is in attendance. Anne enjoys these black-tie affairs, at least in as much as they provide a hiccup in her normal routine and a valid excuse to thumb through the dating apps on her phone. She calls over to the office of Catherine Rawson, PR Manager and her close friend, to see if she’s still working. It goes to voicemail and Anne hangs up. She’ll cajole her into rounding up the staff for the event later.

She hits send on the reply to Eliza and glances over the agenda for the department meeting scheduled tomorrow before locking her computer, folding her glasses into their case and sliding them into her purse. She quickly gives her snake plant, Sansevieria trifasciata – she prefers the scientific name of most things – its weekly dose of water. On her way out of her office, she raises the temperature to 78 degrees to keep the air conditioning from kicking on and snaps off the lights. 7:18 pm. Another day.

She strides to the end of the corridor and opts for the stairs over the elevator, climbing down the four flights two steps at a time, her long legs carrying her quickly and effortlessly to the bottom and out the back door of the hospital. Her car is parked only yards away, a perk of having worked enough hours to have “Chief” in your title. She tosses her purse onto the passenger seat, powers up the car and checks her phone. Another text, this one causing a flush to pass over her cheekbones. Without a second thought, she steers the Tesla towards downtown, suddenly craving a cocktail with a view. On the radio, an anxious newscaster is at the tail end of reporting on a severe traffic mashup involving a limo and three other vehicles. Multiple injuries, some serious. The location, she notes, within the sphere of Walker.

Twenty minutes later, she’s sitting in the rooftop bar of Lincoln Social waiting for the bartender to mix and pour her Manhattan. No urgent calls from the hospital, despite the accident, so she turns her phone off and stows it in her purse. From her stool she can see downtown lit up brilliantly on this mid-summer night. The Leveque Tower and Nationwide building show off the rainbow colors of Pride month at their tops, a visual cue that festival season has arrived in Columbus. She’s come to love this city over the years, appreciative of its kind residents, abundance of local foods and unique neighborhoods that are like little cities in themselves, its big-picture mayor of color. The large gay population here is also a nice bonus, she thinks, flashing a smile at the woman she’s caught looking her way from a few stools down more than once since she arrived.

At 45, Anne still turns heads. Her tall, toned frame and strong jaw line paired with polished walnut, shoulder length hair and eyes to match have caused many a woman to stare a second beyond what’s polite. But it’s the combination of her angular nose and megawatt smile of perfectly imperfect British teeth that really leave the ladies pining. Tonight, she’s accentuated her more masculine features by leaving her suit jacket in the car, opting to bare her shoulders and muscular arms in the Prussian blue sleeveless button up she had on underneath. Her fingers thrum a rhythm on the edge of the bar, the obsidian stone ring on her index finger catching the low light and throwing it back against the stacked glassware.

Any other evening, she might have smoothly made her way down the bar and struck up a conversation with the woman. Seen where the view and the bourbon could take her. But not tonight. Because in a few minutes, Mariana will be joining her.

\---  
“Oh shit. I forgot to text Marian,” Anne says, mostly to herself when she finally remembers to check her phone at 2:15 am. Marian’s left a slew of admonishing texts and tried to call her three times.

“Hmm?” Mariana replies, fighting sleep. “Was she expecting you tonight?”

“Shit. Yes. I told her I’d be home for dinner before I got your text,” Anne says, knowing she’ll face Marian’s wrath in the morning and spend the rest of the week trying to make it up to her.

“You’re a master at unhinging my quiet evenings at home,” Anne teases, rolling on top of Mary, pinning her arms above her head and giving her a long kiss of gratitude. The release of intimate physical contact was immediate, and much needed. Anne couldn’t say how long its been since the last time she’d climaxed, and she’s thankful, for now, that it was Mary who got her there. After twenty years, Mary knows what Anne likes, and Anne can’t help but show her pleasure.

Anne pulls on Mary’s worn Harvard U Law School t-shirt lying at the end of the bed and lays back against the pillows, feeling the buzz of one too many drinks slip away. No matter how many times they say “this is the last time” to each other, they indubitably seem to end up here: lingering in the dopamine rush their bodies just spent the past hour working up to, legs entangled, the clothes they met in scattered across the floor of Mariana’s bedroom. Despite her strong will in most areas of her life, when Mary’s husband is out of town on business and Anne’s phone rings late at night, she always answers. It’s a weakness in her character she’s been striving to eradicate.

After a few minutes, Anne gets up to gather her clothes, slipping back into her trousers and leather Oxfords. She opts to keep Mary’s shirt against her skin and puts her jacket on overtop. Even after all these years, and a fair amount of heartache, she’s not above stealing small sensations of sentimentality. She goes around to side of the bed where Mary’s sprawled out on her stomach, one leg dangling off the side of the mattress, and pulls the sheet up to her shoulders. She sits beside her longtime friend and lover, watching her back rise and fall, taking in the shape of a person that’s held sway over her heart for decades. Finally, after leaning in and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek, Anne picks her way through the darkened house and out to her car. If she’s lucky, she can catch five hours of sleep before the hospital starts looking for her again.

Warm morning sunlight is making its way across Anne’s bed. She blinks. 6:52 am, so almost five hours. It’s Marian that’s roused her, gently, saying her phone’s been ringing on and off for twenty minutes on the coffee table downstairs. Anne fumbles towards consciousness, pushing herself up on her elbows and wiping the kernels of sleep from her eyes. Her body is protesting, preferring staying supine on her satin sheets to rising to meet the day’s obligations. She really should try to get more rest. Beside her, Hinscliff yawns and stretches out his front claws on the duvet. She finds her glasses on the nightstand, slides them on and then rises to give Marian a salute, grateful to her for putting her anger on the back burner until Anne can stretch through a sun salutation, shower, drink a pot of coffee.

Marian pads down the stairs with Hinscliff on her heels and Anne opens her curtains to check the weather. It must have rained overnight, the leaves on the oak tree at the side of the house are dripping and she spies a few earthworms wriggling on the drive. Lines of cirrus clouds stretch across the horizon to the east, looking like cotton balls pulled taut against the bright summer sky. The mercury in the antique, wrought iron thermometer she hung by her window, a birthday present from her Aunt when she graduated from college, reads 77 degrees. She can feel the heat of the sun already gathering against the windowpane and stands a moment to bask in it, remembering the warmth of Mary’s lips on hers, Mary’s thigh between her legs as Anne rocked them both towards orgasm.

How many times had they talked about living together? Mary leaving Charles once and for all. Renting the U-Haul. Gathering their rose buds and making a go of it together. Anne’s never understood her hesitation but knows instinctually Mary will never be hers. Charles is very wealthy but much older, prone to gout and infidelity. The irony of Mary’s career, when she was working – a divorce lawyer for a top firm in D.C. – never fails to elicit a groan. She’ll never commit. And Anne, despite her independent streak, yearns mightily for a companion, a wedding, a ring, a wife. She wants to walk down the aisle and begin a life, shared, with a woman she loves.

Her thoughts become clearer under the pressure of the shower head. It’s time to move on. How can she possibly be serious about finding a long-term partner when she’s still so inveigled with Mariana? As she runs a comb through her wet hair, looking at her reflection in the mirror, a tide of possibility washes over her, buoying her spirits. This ability to restore optimism has served Anne well over the years, giving her courage to change course and achieve success in a predominately male field of work.

At 8:05 she’s bounding up the steps up to the surgical floor. There’s a large, well-dressed crowd gathered in the waiting room area, along with a couple of press cameras. She pops her head into Catherine’s office to see what the hell is going on.  
“What’s up with the paparazzi?”  
Catherine, a younger woman with curly, honey-hued hair, looks up from her computer. She looks frazzled already. Not a good sign. “That’s what I was trying to call you about an hour ago,” she retorts, a bit of an edge to her voice. “Ann Walker’s waiting for you in room 303.”

Anne’s incredulous. Her eyebrows arch quizzically as she asks, “Ann Walker? As in, Ann Walker founder of this hospital Ann Walker? What’s she want with me? And why does she want to see me in a patient’s room?” Alarm bells are going off in her head as she wonders what she’s done to warrant a meeting with one of the wealthiest, reclusive women in the state.

“No, Anne. She’s waiting for a diagnosis. She was involved in that big smashup last night. Some half-drunk idiot t-boned her car when he sped through a red light. She’s pretty banged up. Complaining of numbness and pain in her leg. Get on it, please. Now.” Catherine ushers her out with a pleading look, her eyes betraying the pressure she’s under to make sure this ends well. She’s desperate for some good news. Anne nods, walks briskly to her office to grab her lab coat and put down her things.

Outside room 303, she tries to commit every detail of Miss Walker’s medical chart to memory. Anne makes this effort with most of the patients she sees so that she can be present and listen, do what some of her colleagues refer to as “old school doctoring.” She just knows from experience that much can be learned from comments said in passing. She reads:

Female; age 34; 5’6”; 125 lbs  
Prescribed 10 mg Lexapro daily; slightly elevated blood pressure  
2 fractured ribs on left side; distal radias fracture to right wrist; contusion on right temple  
Patient notes numbness and pain in upper posterior of right leg  
Touch and go history of generalized anxiety and depression; a brief stay at a psychiatric facility in her teens  
Parents deceased

Ouch. Anne’s heart goes out to the girl, she’s endured a couple of broken ribs herself thanks to a schoolyard brawl when she was sixteen. A painful injury, and one that lacks a quick fix. For two weeks, Anne was reduced to mostly laying on the couch or other soft surfaces of her apartment, reading books and watching documentaries on mountaineering, weather, botany, subjects to keep her mind engaged but not induce laughter. She couldn’t ride her bike to school for nearly three months. Christopher Rawson. Damn him. He deserved every punch she threw back at him that day.

Her colleague, neurosurgeon Stephen Belcombe, strides up to her, apparently summoned to attend to Miss Walker as well. He's a gifted surgeon, intelligent, professional, with nimble fingers and a kind disposition. Anne has a deep respect for his skills in the operating theater, too. She once watched him perform a cortectomy on a 15 year old girl suffering from epilepsy. Brain tissue requires extreme precision, dexterity, and steadiness. The hour and a half operation was nothing short of a master class. It reminded Anne of the time she saw Yo Yo Ma perform Bach's six Cello Suites at Red Rocks, or the time when her Aunt, forever supportive, took her to see Picasso's "Nude Woman in a Red Armchair" at the Tate Modern. How she had ogled the sensuous curves of that painting, her young heart finding purchase on a new realization, wanting nothing more than to be the plush cushion of the chair with a woman sitting lusciously upon her.

“Ready to make sure we keep receiving our paychecks?” he asks, a trace of nervousness detectable in his tone, which causes her to straighten her shoulders and lift her chin. She lives for rising to a challenge. Taking her movements as a tacit reply, he taps gently on the door and Anne follows him into the room.


	2. The Red Chair

The first figure she sees is that of a slim-shouldered man in a dark suit sitting in a chair beside the patient’s bed. He’s talking softly to Miss Walker, lightly stroking her hand with his thumb as he holds it. The way he’s leaning forward, his back curved, elbows propped on the edge of the bed, seems intimate. Anne catches the gleam of a gold wedding band. A copy of the King James Bible sits open on his lap. The bedside table and windowsill are already bursting with flower arrangements, the scent of roses and carnations masking the hospital’s normally insipid odor. 

She knows next to nothing about Ann Walker beyond the medical facts she’s just memorized and the odd bits of gossip she hears in the hospital: struggles with depression; a rotating door of suitors hoping for a key to the Walker treasure chests. The family, also hailing from England, made their fame and fortune in art, collecting and later selling obscure works by Danish and Chinese artists. A picture of John and Mary Walker, Ann’s parents, hangs in the hospital lobby, but their youngest daughter has so far managed to keep herself out of the public eye.

Hearing them enter, the man stands up, puts the Bible on the chair and walks to meet them by the door, concern evident in the deep furrow of his brow. 

“Doctors, good morning. I’m Pastor Ainsworth – Tom – a close friend of Ann’s. Her sister asked me to stay until her plane gets in late this evening; she’s flying over from Scotland. Ann’s just woken up and could use some pain meds. She’s still complaining of the numbness in her leg, too.” He speaks softly, glancing often towards the bed, and Anne gets the impression that he’s only too happy to have been tasked with seeing to Ann’s wellbeing.

Anne and Steph both shake the hand he’s proffered. As Ainsworth begins phase two of his unsolicited assessment, Anne deftly sidesteps him and fixes her gaze on Miss Walker. The poor girl has seen better days. Her right eye is nearly swollen shut, a sanguine-colored bruise stretching down the side of her face from the prominent bump on her temple. Her right wrist has been elevated and immobilized in a temporary cast. The ER docs opted to keep her in a neck brace overnight, likely nervous about the leg numbness, waiting for Anne to rule out any possible correlations to a spinal injury.

Anne approaches the bed and puts her hand on Ann’s slender wrist, checking her pulse while subtly bestowing a touch of warmth and reassurance. She glimpses a tattoo, tail feathers of a bird, maybe, peeking out under the sleeve of her gown. 

“How are you feeling today, Miss Walker? I hear you had a bit of an adventure last night on the highway. I am sorry about that. Rest assured you’re in the very best place you could be now, as you know. Dr. Belcombe and I will make sure you’re comfortable and well looked after while you’re here with us. I’m Dr. Lister, by the way” she ends with a smile, looking into Ann’s eyes for the first time, watching for pupil dilation and any facial muscle discrepancies that might indicate serious trauma. 

She’s caught somewhat off guard when Ann’s eyes, which remind her of the cornflowers that grew wild on the fields around Halifax, spark with interest. Anne’s fingers detect a slight quickening of the pulse, too, where they still rest upon her wrist.

Ann opens her mouth to reply but its Ainsworth that jumps in: “Like I said, Dr. Lister, Ann again mentioned that she’s experiencing numbness and a tingling sensation in the back of her right leg. I did a Google search and didn’t much care for…”

Anne cuts him off again before he can finish. No need for internet-induced panic. “I’d like to hear from Miss Walker, if that’s alright.” 

Again, that flash of intensity in the eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you, actually,” Ann manages to whisper, wincing when her smile reaches her bruised cheek. “Really, I-I feel fine. I’d just like to go home. How’s James, my driver?” 

Anne’s curious what she’s heard; a conversation to be broached another time. 

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to keep me company for a few days before that can happen, Miss Walker. Can you describe the sensation your experiencing in your leg to me? Have you ever had it before?”

Ann waits a beat before answering, whether to form her thoughts or because the simple act of following a conversation is painful. “No, never like this. When I sit up, it feels like an electric shock in my lower back. But mostly, I just feel a sort of tingling here,” she uses her good hand to point to her right hip and down the back of her leg, and, her voice dropping, “my butt goes kinda numb.”

“What about your vision? Any blurriness?” she asks, gently pushing Ann’s bangs off her forehead so she can get a better look at the angry welt they partway cover. Her skin is soft, and she watches as the end of Ann’s nose flushes pink at her touch.

Ann shakes her head. “I have a bit of a headache, but I imagine that’s a result of my head becoming fast friends with the car window last night.”

Anne chuckles. Physically broken, maybe, but Miss Walker’s spirit’s intact. She’ll take that. Anne runs through probabilities in her head. It’s most likely a herniated disc caused by the impact of the crash. She glances at Steph; his face has relaxed, and she knows he also believes Ann’s injuries aren’t life threatening. The young woman may have to undergo a couple of surgeries, but she’ll mend. She still has the benefit of youth on her side.

“Alright, very good Miss Walker. We’ll get the nurse to bring you some pain medication and an update on James. I’d like to get you over for an MRI and CT Scan this morning. But I suspect you’ll be just fine. The symptoms you’re describing are consistent with a herniated disc, which makes sense considering the blow you withstood.” She sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls out a small card showing the components of the spinal cord from her coat pocket. She holds it so Ann can make out the image. “You see, discs are like shock absorbers for your spine. A collision like the one you were in can often cause one or two of them to slip out of place, which puts pressure on the nerves in your spine, here. This can cause severe pain. The MRI should show us if that’s indeed the case. If I’m right, we’ll get you out of this neck brace and go from there.” Anne checks to make sure the other woman is still following, and finds her eyes darting up from where they had been staring at her lips.

Well, well, well. Is Miss Walker checking her out? Anne lets her mind change gears and regards the woman in front of her on a personal level. She is attractive. Arched eyebrows betray a personality capable of mischief. Her short blond hair puts her delicate facial features – the high cheekbones, full lips and Duchess nose – on bold display. Anne imagines a long, graceful neck beneath the brace, and the thin hospital sheet doesn’t hide the swell of breasts and wide hips. There’s a definite lack of laugh lines though, the skin surrounding her eyes and mouth still impossibly smooth. Despite herself, Anne’s intrigued in the story of this wealthy heiress.

“Thank you, doctors. I guess that’s good news.” It’s Ainsworth again. “I’ll text Ann’s sister with an update. I know she’s anxious for news. And if we could get that pain medication…” he trails off.

“Yes, of course,” Steph steps in now. He has a sixth sense when it comes to detecting annoyance in his colleague. “If there’s anything else you need, Miss Walker, just push your call button. Dr. Lister and I will be back to collect you shortly for the scans. And I saw that you’ll be getting that wrist fixed up this afternoon, so you’re in for a bit of a day I’m afraid. Try to relax in the meantime, ok?”

Anne gives Ann’s wrist another gentle squeeze before getting up to leave. Out in the hall, a police officer is waiting to go in. 

“I just need to get her statement if that’s ok docs. They wouldn’t let me talk to her last night,” she states, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pants from where she’d been squatting against the wall.

“Make it quick,” Anne says, feeling protective of her patient without quite knowing why. “What happened to the idiot driving the other car?”

“Oh, we arrested him after he was cleared for health last night. Figures he didn’t have more than a scratch on him. His BAC was .15 when he got here, probably too drunk to feel anything. He’ll suffer when the Walkers’ attorneys file suit though.” 

“Who is he?” Steph probes, maybe just as curious as Anne.

“I think his name’s Sowden, something like that. Lives on a farm south of the city. Was in town yesterday helping with a roofing job, downed way too many Buds after clocking out and then decided to get behind a wheel. Surprised he hasn’t been in this position before. Seems like the alcoholic type. He’ll regret it this time, that’s for sure.” She taps her pen on her notebook with authority, as if sentencing him to a long prison term herself and enters the room.

Anne tells Steph she’ll talk with radiology to schedule Miss Walker’s tests. She returns to Catherine’s office to give her an update – she’ll have to keep the press satiated – and then begins checking in with her other patients. As she goes about her rounds, her mind stays with Miss Walker, feeling the spike in the pulse, recognizing something of herself in the way Ann’s eyes lit up. When she has a break, she sits down at her computer and types “Ann Walker” into her internet browser. The search yields a short Wikipedia article, mostly talking about Ann’s parents’ success in the art world, and the plague of deaths that have stalked the family. There are a couple photos of Ann at her sister Elizabeth's wedding, a high society affair at a castle in the Scottish Highlands. Ann looks very becoming in a light blue gown, the empire waist hugging her petite frame, if not a bit sad. Anne notes the year and deduces that most of the Walkers would not have been alive for the event. 

She keeps scrolling. About halfway down the results page there’s a photo that makes her own pulse quicken. In it, a gorgeously androgynous thirty-something, decked out in a black tuxedo, sits regally on a plush red chair. On her lap – Anne’s mind decides to see the figure as a woman – is a nude blond, her face sideways to the camera, eyes filled with longing. A gloved hand sits rakishly on her upper thigh, the other one pressing into the cavity beneath her breasts, holding her in place. It’s Picasso reimagined. Anne clicks on the image and instantly feels a shift in her core. The photo is credited to Ann Walker.


	3. New Angles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As my girlfriend will attest, this story has completely consumed me. Late nights, cramped wrists, tons of tabs open in my browser. But lord it's fun! I doff my hat to the Ann(e)s for their endless inspiration.

The next time Anne sees Miss Walker, it’s pushing 4:30 in the afternoon. Ainsworth’s gone, perhaps to refill his coffee or, wishful thinking, got locked in the morgue. Room 303 is still except for the dust mites dancing in the slats of sunlight streaming in through the blinds, their rhythms and movements seemingly eternal. The younger woman is fast asleep, just an hour out of surgery, her swollen right wrist and forearm now encased in a splint. Despite the bruising, she looks peaceful, cherubic, her expensive pixie cut finally ruffled out of place from hours on the pillow. 

Anne resists a sudden urge to hold Ann’s face in her hand, trace the jawline with her fingertips, stroke the crest of Ann’s cheekbone with the soft pad of her thumb. How lovely it would be to lay down next to her, head resting in the pocket where Ann’s shoulder meets the curve of her neck, arms just touching, and sleep. To let the white noise of air conditioners and respirators lull them into a shared oblivion. Instead, she takes a seat, puts on her glasses and pulls up Ann’s chart. The surgeons treated the closed fracture with an internal fixation plate, five pins anchoring the bones in place. Prognosis good. The thin, modern plates available today generally allow for earlier utilization of the joint and frees the patient from a clunky plaster cast. 

The neck brace has been removed – Anne gave the all clear after looking at the MRI results over her midday cup of Earl Grey – and she can just make out the steady pulse of the carotid artery fluttering under the skin. She was disappointed not to be the one to remove it, just for an excuse to bring their faces close, to see that spark flash in Ann’s eyes again. But she was called in to administer a nerve stimulation treatment on a patient dealing with persistent, acute depression, and from there the day swirled away from her control. 

Stirring slightly, Ann moves to roll over on her left side. Anne hears the sharp intake of breath as the ache in her ribs thwarts her effort, and her own ribs twinge in empathy, remembering. Ann’s head falls to the left, facing where Anne is sitting next to the bed, and her eyelids flutter open.

“Oh. Dr. Lister. Is that you?” Her voice is thick with sleep and pain medication, the words somewhat slurred as she works to make her mouth keep up with her mind. “How long have you been here?”

Anne stands up and moves closer. “Not long, Miss Walker. I just came to see how you were.” Anne can’t believe how tender her voice sounds, how much emotion this person she barely knows has managed to churn up within her. She smiles at Ann, hoping the genuine affection she feels is evident in the gesture. “The surgeon said everything went just as it should with your wrist, so you should be back to taking pictures and signing autographs by the fall.” And there it is, the spark. She nearly missed it, looking instead at Ann’s parched lips. 

“Can I get you some water? You must be thirsty after the day you’ve had.” She offers to raise the bed into a more upright position so Ann can sip some water, hating that even this small movement causes her to gasp as another shockwave of pain rolls through her. She drinks her fill and hands the cup back to Anne, who sits it down on top of the Bible Mr. Ainsworth left behind, rubbing the condensation into the leather cover. Admittedly, she can be petulant.

“What about my spine, the shock absorbers? Can they take any more hits?”

“Hmm. Well. Not for a while, at least. Your MRI did show a herniated disc in the lumbar – the lower – region of your spine, but I believe we can treat it conservatively.” She speaks slowly, allowing Ann’s drug-fogged brain ample time to absorb her words. “Maybe a cortisone injection if you’re still feeling pain in six weeks. Most likely a course of physical therapy down the road, for your wrist, too. But for now, we’ll see if we can get the better of it with a regimen of muscle relaxers and rest.” She pauses before continuing; she doesn’t like the idea of not seeing her again. “If nothing changes, I don’t see why your sister can’t take you home tomorrow.”

Ann’s eyes drift shut. Anne smiles to herself, thrilled to feel the flicker of a flame she long thought extinguished stirring in her gut. She’s smitten with this quiet woman that’s managed to guard her privacy from prying eyes, who’s strong enough to keep her affluence from ruining her civility. As she leans in to lower the bed again, she’s startled when Ann takes a firm grasp of her arm.   
“How did you know I take pictures?” Her eyes are guarded, the expression unreadable.

Shit. The girl listens. “Lucky guess, I suppose, “Anne says, thinking quickly. “Someone told me you took the photo of your parents that’s in the lobby downstairs.” A lie, but she can’t bear to admit that she Google-stalked her. “Is that true? It’s very well done.”

Ann removes her hand, placing it on her rib cage, probably where the fractured bones are demanding attention. She looks rueful, staring into a past only she can see. “No, not me. They had that taken for an article in American Art Collector, I think, years ago. My parents died, you know, and my brother, in a plane crash when I was 19. I was in a pretty dark place after that, until Elizabeth,” her voice breaks and she drops her chin. She clears her throat, takes a deep breath, looks up again. “Until Elizabeth gave me a book of portraits by famous photographers – Diane Arbus, Julia Margaret Cameron, Annie Leibovitz. And my first camera. It helped bring me back to the surface, seeing life in new angles and lights.” 

She brings her gaze up to meet Anne’s, and Anne knows she’s bearing witness to a raw truth about Miss Walker. “It’s easier for me, I guess, to process events, people, everything really, within a frame. If I try to take in everything that’s happening, that’s happened, I don’t know. It just gets too big. That probably doesn’t make sense to you.” The sadness on her face is palpable. Instinctively, Anne takes her hand in her own and feels something intangible pass between them. She’s honored by Ann’s words, that she trusts her to hear them, without judgement, and keep them safe. The moment elongates and Anne begins to lose herself in the softness of Ann’s palm, and fuck, the longing that’s intensifying between her legs.

“It does make sense.” Anne feels the need to be honest now. “I lied to you before. I’m sorry. After we met this morning, I looked you up online and found your photo of the woman in the red chair. I’d love to see your other work, sometime, if you don’t mind.” She pauses, considering. “Tell me, Miss Walker, do you like Picasso?” 

The sudden clattering of high heels outside the room supersedes Ann’s reply. A beautiful woman rushes in, long blond hair disheveled, mascara starting to smudge beneath her eyes. She nearly knocks Anne backwards in her rush to Ann’s side. 

“Oh my god, Ann! I got here as soon as I could. The weather in Chicago was a mess and for the life of me I’ll never understand customs. You walk a mile and show your ID to five different people and they still don’t want to let you board a plane! Jesus Christ. I’m so sorry!” She’s crying, hysterical, and Anne sees that Miss Walker is, too, her shoulders shuddering with emotion. “Are you ok? Come here!” She sits on the bed and wraps Ann in a hug as best she can, smoothing her hair and fussing over her bruises.

After a few minutes, Ann mumbles, “Lizzie, you’re smothering me,” from underneath the woman’s shoulder. The woman lets go, still tearful and Ann makes the introductions: “Dr. Lister, this is my sister, Elizabeth. Lizzie, Dr. Lister. She’s been taking good care of me, when she’s not busy stalking me online.” Her eyebrows arch above a mischievous grin. Anne feels herself blushing; god damn a woman that gives her crap.

“Elizabeth, it’s nice to meet you.” She extends her hand and Elizabeth shakes it with both of hers. “I can definitely see the family resemblance.”

“Oh god, really? Do I look that terrible? Ann looks like she’s ready for a starring role in a zombie flick!” She winks at Ann, their affection for each other obvious. “But really Dr. Lister, how is she? I could kill the guy that did this!”

Anne's adores Elizabeth already. “She’ll be fine. The surgery on her wrist went well today. She’ll be in the splint for about six weeks; we’ll take regular x-rays to make sure the bones are setting properly. No reason she shouldn’t regain full movement though. However, there’s not much we can do for her ribs besides keep her comfortable. The impact of the crash caused a disc in her lower back to slip out of place, but I want to hold off on surgery for now. These things often heal themselves with time. I’d say she’s pretty lucky considering; it could’ve been much worse.” 

Anne’s nearly knocked backward a second time as Elizabeth engulfs her in a hug. “Thank you, doctor. We’ve both been through so much. If something happened to her, I..” she can’t finish, the thought too horrific to articulate.

Anne leaves them to catch up and rest, both appearing relieved to be in the company of the other. She checks her watch: 5:15 pm. She’s desperately tired and decides to gather her things and join the river of traffic winding creeping its way on the highway in front of the hospital. Besides, she's still got work to do at home: making up to Marian.


	4. Summer Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to everyone for reading and leaving notes of encouragement. I promise to pick up the pace and the Ann(e)s romance in the next chapter!

Ann noses the coal black Tesla into the garage, plugging it in to charge before lowering the door. She still gets a kick out of the fact that she commutes to work on sunlight, captured in the array of solar panels she’d had installed on the roof when the prices finally became reasonable and stored in a bank of batteries in the basement. When she opens the back door of the house, Hinscliff winds his usual figure eight between her legs and she can hear Marian busying herself in the kitchen. The satiating aroma of garlic and onions frying in a pan makes her stomach rumble.

She kicks off her Oxfords, throws her bag on the table by the door and checks her phone. There’s been no word from Mariana all day. Charles must be back. Marian’s left her mail in pile and she thumbs through it absentmindedly as she makes her way to the kitchen. Bills, an issue of National Geographic, junk. She throws the stack on the counter and sidles up to her sister, giving her a quick peck on the cheek and looking over the array of pots simmering on the stove. 

“Evening, chef. Smells fantastic in here. What are we having?” 

Marian, not caving so easily, ignores her. 

“Well.” Anne knows she deserves this and keeps trying. “How about I pop open a bottle of red and give you a hand? We still have that fancy Pinot I bought when we hosted the hospital board last month. I’ll be back down in a minute, just want to put on something more comfortable.” Marian grunts and continues watching the pasta noodles writhe a pot of boiling water.

Upstairs in her room, Anne strips down to her underwear and stands rooted, wriggling her toes up and down in the shafts of afternoon sunlight shimmering on the bare floorboards. She stretches her arms above her head and leans to the left, to the right, before hinging forward at the waist and reaching for her toes. Exhaling, she notices tension in her hamstrings and hips; too much work, likely not enough sleep. She hangs there for a moment before rising vertebrae by vertebrae back to vertical, wondering how long before Miss Walker would be able to mimic this movement without daggers of pain. 

Rummaging through her dresser, she finds a pair of black joggers and a tank top and shrug them on. She spies Mariana’s shirt hanging on the back of the door where she left it this morning. Grabbing it off the hook Anne brings it to her nose, inhaling the vanilla and citrus undertones of the woman that normally wears it. The scent no longer produces the instant arousal it once did. Too much water under the bridge by this point, perhaps. She tosses it on the bed, making a mental note to catch up on her journal this weekend. Writing, expressing her thoughts with pen on paper, always delivers clarity. 

At dinner, she keeps Marian’s wine glass topped off. They share the chicken tetrazzini with fresh peas her sister prepared mostly in silence until Anne, needing some distraction, gets up to put on a record. 

“I waited to eat for over an hour, thinking you were caught in traffic. I was worried.” Marian’s voice is gravel, her eyes glacial. “Why can’t you ever remember to call? You’re so selfish.”  


“Yes, I know this. I’m sorry.” She doesn’t know what more to say; they’ve had this conversation a million times. On the record Frank Sinatra croons through “Summer Wind,” and Anne, knowing all will be forgiven if she can get Marian to laugh, sweeps her sister off her chair and twirls her around the dining room. Marian’s stiff as a board in her arms until the third time around the table, when her face breaks into a smile and she leans Anne back over her forearm into a dramatic dip.

Relieved and amused herself, Anne says, “I am sorry, sis. You know I hate it when we argue. It throws off my equilibrium.”

“Mine, too. Just call next time. Or have Mariana do it for god’s sake. You’re both adults. Surely one of you can keep track of the outside world while you’re screwing each other’s brains out.” Marian gives her a scolding look. She’s never been fond of Anne sleeping with a married woman. If Anne’s being honest, she isn’t either. “I’m not doing the dishes.” With that Marian takes her glass and the bottle and heads to the couch, leaving Anne feeling like she could use a scrub as well.

At 8:30 she heads upstairs. Marian was engrossed in the latest episode of Project Runway, a fountainhead of design comments, sketching ideas as they came to her. Anne falls onto her bed, the wine and pasta still heavy in her stomach. A warm breeze swirls in through the open window, whispering over her skin like the soft touch of a teasing lover. Lying still, Anne’s mind again turns to the wealthy woman resting just a few miles away in room 303. She pictures the blue eyes that bespeak a quiet inner strength, the playful lift of her eyebrows, and remembers the unabashed way she held on to Anne’s hand. She shimmies up the bed until her head finds the pillow, closes her eyes and lets thoughts of Ann Walker lead her to climax before plummeting into a deep sleep.  
\---  
Anne’s brought to consciousness suddenly at the sound of a car backfiring in the alley behind the house. It’s still dark outside and she gets that fish-out-of-water feeling synonymous with being awake when everyone else is sleeping. She hates that feeling. Being a light sleeper, she finds it difficult to reestablish a REM cycle once her mind’s awake. The clock glows 4:35AM. Hinscliff’s camped at his nighttime post between her feet and Anne focuses on matching his low breaths with her own, willing sleep to find her again. But it’s no use; she’s unsettled. After ten minutes, she gets up and wanders over to her desk, flipping on the small lamp. Once her eyes adjust, she plucks one of the slim black volumes of journals that line her bookshelf and thumbs it open to a page at random. 

"December 2001, café near NYU

I feel like an outsider To be honest, I feel worn, ravished, tired. I’m no match for winter these days. The bitter wind has its way with me, whipping through the red coat of my artificial down and icing my blood as it vainly tries to pump life into an already cold heart. Winter in New England is bleak, and this year I’m looking upon it with sleet-coated eyes. It’s been nine months now. Three-quarters of a year since you abdicated our love in favor of a fortune. Even though I know this town down to the pavement cracks and last train whistle, it feels foreign without you. 

A couple in the corner has started to argue, their body language heated and sparking cautious glances from other customers. The woman is leaning forward in her chair, her abdomen pushing against the edge of the table as she prods the man for a response. I realize I’ve been staring at them for a while, lost in thoughts of the discussion that formed the rift valley between you and me. Not that I’m putting our relationship on grand geologic terms, but the analogy is apt. In our case, the tensional force of distance pulled us apart, spread our emotions to blade-like thinness capable of wielding deep, unseen cuts with their sharp edges. You said you couldn’t do this anymore. I said I’d never love anyone more. Our once convergent plates suddenly diverged; we’d reached the unbridgeable abyss, an impasse that quickly shuttered the softer dimension of your eyes and swallowed my dreams of forever shared. Now, a dark ocean basin sits where our love used to reign, gradually deepening with the addition of salty, guttural tears. 

I wish I hated you. It would be easier. In fact, I wish I felt anything except this coldness, this iron jacket of immobility and inaction. I should have gotten in your face, like this woman is doing now, and spewed hot words of action and passion an inch from your nose. I should have exploded, raged, made kin with the wailing English widows of my ancestry.  
“Damn you for uprooting my naivety! You said you saw a future for us, a bungalow, mornings of scones and clotted cream in bed, the prospect of taking in the world together. You said I was the one. The one! What happened to that?” I should have screamed. 

Instead, you left without shedding a tear or looking over your shoulder, and my unexpressed anger solidified within me. I want to cheer the café woman on, become a soldier of her fury, linked arm-in-arm behind her with an army of women who have silently watched their lovers walk away. Our battle cry - "Our passion shall be known!" - will spill out onto the night streets, echo off the brick facades and reverberate in the heads of those already dreaming. 

Later, in the morning, the sleepers will rise and feel strangely emboldened, wishing their briefcases were shields, their umbrellas sabers of justice. They’ll drive to work, nerves popping with hot caffeine, and wonder why another day in the office suddenly seems inane. They’ll be in on the secret the café woman and I already share – love is an impetus; the only thing worth anything; the alpha and omega of everything. 

My passion shall be known."

How fervent she’d been! At the time, it seemed like Mariana’s declaration of marriage would end her. She’d flown home to Halifax, needing the comfort of Aunt’s arm around her shoulder until her eyes and insides went dry. Weeks passed before Anne started taking full breaths again. She’d thron herself into her studies, rising to the top of her class by summer break. Anne closes the journal, not wanting to remember any more. 

She’s off. Tucking a suit and shoes in a bookbag and bidding Marian a good day on the post-it she sticks on the fridge, Anne half walks, half jogs the four odd miles to Walker Memorial. It’s just after 6:30 when she arrives, sweaty, but with her head clear. She grabs breakfast at the hospital cafeteria and then heads upstairs to shower. Her path takes her by room 303 and she stops to poke her head in. Elizabeth is sound asleep in the chair, head lolled back, legs propped on the edge of the bed. Ann’s head is turned away and Anne assumes she’s asleep as well. She turns to leave, forgetting about the pack on her back, which clatters against an empty IV pole she hadn’t noticed. Cursing under her breath, she glances back at Ann, who’s now looking at her with obvious amusement. 

“Dr. Lister. What have you been up to?” The question comes out low, sultry.

Anne doesn’t understand what she’s asking until she sees Ann taking in the triangle of dampness on her tank, her sweat-glistened arms.

She chuckles, wishing she had a more scandalous story to tell as she walks closer to the bed. “Ah. Here’s the thing, Miss Walker. Sometimes my thoughts won’t leave me alone and I have no choice but to exercise them. Away, that is. Perhaps you’ve experienced something similar?” She talks softly, not wanting to disturb Elizabeth.

“Call me Ann, please. I don’t exercise much, actually, but it’s a good look on you.” Again, her gaze sweeps down, lingering on Anne's hips, her chest, before slowly coming back up. It gives Anne the delightful sensation of being visually undressed. Ann runs the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, quickly, before biting it and Anne is instantly turned on. 

“Very well, Ann. You may call me Anne, but pronounced with an e,” she winks. “Now, I really should shower and dress before you get me any hotter." She lets that idea hang between them for a second. A challenge to be met at a later date.

"I see you’re set to be discharged around ten, so make sure your sister has your bags and pop-up floral shop – she waves towards the endless bouquets lining the windowsill – packed. Shall I call on you again before you leave?”

“Would you? I’d like that very much.”


	5. Chapter 5

The morning passes quickly enough. At twenty to ten, Eliza Priestly stops by her office to verify Miss Walker’s condition as stable. Anne can’t decide whether the visit is out of familial concern – she’s heard they’re related by marriage – or the financial fate of the hospital but reassures her on both fronts, wondering how much unconditional support Ann has in her life. The two women head down the hall towards 303 together. Anne steals a glance at her reflection in a window as they walk. She has her favorite suit on, purposefully; she wants to make an impression Ann will take home, send her off with a dash of panache. It’s a black lounge suit, linen. Jacket, vest and pants all a dark charcoal with a pinstripe only visible when up close. Marian brought it home from work and tailored it to Anne’s signature blend of masculine confidence with feminine details. She’s left the top button of her shirt undone, exposing the heart-shaped heliotrope pendant she wears around her neck. She looks well enough, handsome, even. 

Elizabeth and Pastor Ainsworth stand talking by the window. Ann’s sitting up in bed with her eyes closed, a pair of wireless headphones over her ears keeping the world at bay. A man in a chauffeur's cap with a bruise on his face to rival Ann’s, stands silently in the corner. The flowers have been removed, all except for a single bouquet of roses. A simple gray top and pair of pajama pants are laid out on the bed, presumably for Ann to wear home. The conversations come to a halt when Anne and Eliza enter. 

“Dr. Lister,” Elizabeth moves to greet her, shaking her hand, “it’s so nice to see you again. And Eliza, it’s been a while!” She gives the woman a brief hug and Anne surmises it’s more of a formality. “Ever since most of the family decided to follow my little sister overseas, I feel like I rarely get to see anyone.” They begin to chat amicably about husbands and kids and missed holiday parties as Anne moves to Miss Walker’s side. 

“Ann?” No response, the music pouring into her ears loud enough to drown out everything. Not wanting to startle her, she puts her hand lightly on Ann’s thigh. “Ann?” she tries again, a bit louder. This time, blue eyes open to meet hers, and as Ann’s pupils constrict in response to the light Anne gets the distinct impression that the younger woman had been somewhere else entirely. 

“Hello again. Or should I say, welcome back.” Anne smiles as she takes in her appearance. The swelling on her temple has decreased, but the surrounding bruise is still vivid and spreading, the blood succumbing to gravity with little resistance under the soft, loose skin of her face. 

“Hello, Anne.” Two simple words, but she feels embraced by them, Ann’s voice is so sweet. 

“Ready to go home?”

“Mm, it’ll be nice to have some privacy again. I really rather prefer seeing people on my own schedule,” she says with a sideways glance at Ainsworth. “My bed is much nicer, too. Big enough for three and no plastic mattress crinkling every time I move. I just want to sprawl out and read for days.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.” She leans in, “if I were in your shoes, I’d most likely have told everyone to bugger off and leave me be a long time ago.” Ann drops her head, laughs demurely. It’s endearing. “I’ll just take a few more minutes of your time, if I could.”

“Of course you can.” And to Anne’s surprise, she quickly dispatches everyone from the room.

Alone together, Anne feels her skin prickle as the air becomes charged with meaning; her attraction to Miss Walker is undeniable. “Good. Well, I’d just like to check your pain level, go over your medications and talk about what you can expect in the weeks ahead.” Ann nods. Anne pulls the chair up to the bed and sits down. She likes being on the same level as this woman. “Ok, so on a scale of one to ten, with one being the lowest and ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt, how would you describe the pain in your back?”

“A six, I guess.”

“And in your ribs?”

“About the same, a six.”

“How about your leg?” Anne’s jotting down the figures on a notepad as Ann answers.

“Four.” 

“The wrist?”

Ann looks down at the splint, weakly wiggles her fingers up and down to test, grimaces. “Seven.”

“Alright. I’d continue to take the codeine for your wrist for another day or two. Post-surgical pain has a way of sneaking up on you, so it’s best to stay on top of it. After that, I’d prefer you switch to Tylenol. And you’re fine to keep taking your prescribed dose of Lexapro. If you experience any dizziness or shortness of breath though, you come find me right away.” She pauses. “Actually, if you need anything at all.” She looks at Anne with intent, performing a test of her own.

“I will.” 

“Good. Good. Rest will be key. Don’t feel guilty about taking two weeks off as you recoup. Reading a stack of books is exactly the right idea, just make a fist and move your fingers around occasionally between page turns. And try to keep your wrist elevated at night. No weightlifting beyond a coffee cup with that hand though until your sutures come out.” 

“And here I was just starting to train for next year’s Arnold Classic.”

Anne laughs. “I do admire women with ambition.” She’s fighting a strong desire to keep Ann close for as long as she can. Being with her is easy. No need for a show, to be anything other than herself. But she’s hesitant to cross the line from doctor to flirt. If her advances were to overstep the mark, she’d most likely be out of a job, her professional reputation tarnished. So, she gives up control. If Ann’s interested, she’ll have to make the first move. “Alright, I don’t want to keep you from that big bed of yours any longer. Shall I call a nurse to help you get changed? I know five-dollar hospital gowns are all the rage with you young folk, so you’re welcome to keep it if you’d like.”

Ann looks down at the blue geometric print, pulls at a loose thread on the sleeve, pensive. A blush creeps up her neck as she turns back to Anne. “Would you help me?” 

No further exchange is needed; it’s enough to give Anne hope, and she lets her instincts take over. She folds the bed sheet down, exposing Miss Walker’s pale, lissome thighs and calves. Putting her arm around Ann’s upper back – she’s impossibly slender – and tucking her hand just beneath the armpit, she murmurs, “Take my hand, Miss Walker,” a weighted proposition. Her head is right next to Ann’s. They’re looking at life from the same angle for the first time, working towards a common goal. Ann takes her hand and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, grunting with the effort.   
Anne retrieves the pajama bottoms from the end of the bed, kneels in front of Ann, and guides her feet into the openings. Letting the waistband fall to the floor, she stands up and wraps both arms around Ann, leveraging the strength in her quads and lower back to help lift her into a standing position. She can hear Ann grit her teeth against the pain, feels the quick exhale of breath against her neck. And then they’re upright, entangled, Ann leaning into her for support, left fingers gripping her shoulder blade, her head turned to the side and pressed tightly against Anne’s shoulder. She smells of embers, wood, the forest at dusk. Anne closes her eyes, imagines a campfire, the warm glow of Miss Walker’s face as she gazes into the flames, soft blankets strewn on a tent floor close by, waiting. 

Bending down, she pulls the pants up under the hem of Ann’s gown, up and over the curvy outcrop of her hips. Reaching behind, she easily undoes the knot on the gown and brings it forward, freeing Ann’s arms in turn, careful not to bump her damaged ribs or wrist. Before Ann can shrug on a loose tee, Anne’s treated to a visual feast of womanhood: full, firm boobs; the beckoning hollow hold above the clavicle; smooth stomach tensed in pain? Embarrassment? Excitement? The tattoo on the inside of Ann’s bicep – a swallow, wings outstretched as if lifting away from the body – also reveals itself. The image is of the bird’s breast and underbelly, what you would see if you were gazing skyward and the bird soared into your field of vision, a shadow against the sun.

Never has she found the act of dressing someone so sensuous. If time and rules and responsibilities and societal norms didn’t exist, she’d carry this woman away and spend the rest of her days fanning the flame of her desire. “I’m curious,” she runs her thumb over the bird, tracing the outline of its back from beak to wingtip to tail, “what’s the significance of the swallow?” She yearns to know, to understand, everything. 

Ann sits back down, sighs. “Several years back, I did something I shouldn’t have. It was unexpected, messy. I was a mess. I’ve never told anyone about it. But for weeks after I’d lay in bed listening to the swallows outside chirping and chittering to each other. I could hear them take off and return, busy, purposeful in their lives. I admired them, their independence and interdependence, wanted one to take me under its wing and teach me how to fly, how to be. I read later that swallows and sparrows are common on the skin of prison inmates, representing personal battles against an unjust society. I don’t know; it just spoke to me.”

“It suits you.” Anne gets the sense she’s cast a pebble into the placid well of Miss Walker’s demeanor. She can almost see her words falling slowly through the lungs, the diaphragm, collecting in the dark pit of her stomach, lighting and uplifting her from within. 

Cordingly, one of the nurses on the floor, enters with a wheelchair, unknowingly breaking the tension. “Dr. Lister, Mrs. Sutherland is asking if Miss Walker is ready to go. I told her I would come check.”

“Yes, she’s all set,” Anne replies, masking her disappointment behind a professional smile. As Cordingly leaves to convey the message, she helps Ann clamber into the wheelchair. Sitting there, she looks uncertain, fragile, like she might blow over in a strong wind. Anne puts her hands on her shoulders, to steady them both – ships embarking on lengthy voyages – and says with as much confidence as she can muster, “You’ll be alright. Take good care of yourself.” Ann nods, her eyes shining.

And then she’s gone. The man in the cap – James, Anne realizes – wheels her out, Elizabeth holding her hand and Ainsworth tailing behind clutching his watermarked Bible. She hears the elevator ding at the end hall, the doors open and close. Anne sits in the slight indentation Ann Walker left on the bed, the printed hospital gown in her hands. She brings it to her nose, breathing in the last traces of the woman that seized her heart so suddenly. The roses on the bedside table catch her eye, and she rises to grab them, sprinting down the hall to the stairs, desperate for one last interaction with their owner. But the party has already left, shepherding Ann back to the privacy and safety of her wealth.

Anne looks down at the roses. They’re beautiful, fragrant, expensive. She spots a card hidden within the stems, unopened. Finding a bench, she places the bouquet beside her and slides her finger under the flap. 

“If you ever want to discuss Picasso…”  
A phone number.

Anne’s heart skips a beat.


	6. Neon-Punched

Exactly 48 hours later, 10:40 am Saturday morning, Anne’s sitting on her bed when she dials the number scribbled in the card. After three rings a man comes on the line, gruff in his greeting. “Who’s this?”

Anne’s caught off guard. She’d assumed Ann had left her cell. “Oh, hello. This is Dr. Lister from Walker Memorial. Is Miss Walker in?”

“Wrong number.” Abruptly, the line goes dead.

Anne gets up, carries the card over to her window, tilting it this way and that in the bright sunlight, trying to decipher the peck-and-scratch numbers written by a non-dominant hand. She dials again, this time replacing a 9 with a 4. The phone seems to ring forever, Anne becoming more crestfallen with each trill of the line. She could easily retrieve Ann’s number from the medical chart, but that would require a trip to the office, and she’s supposed to meet Catherine for tennis at noon. Finally, a silvery voice rescues her mood and rouses her endorphins, “Hello?”

Anne smiles. It’s her, sounding much better. “Hello? Ann? It’s doctor–it’s Anne Lister. I wanted to call and thank you for the flowers. They were a beautiful surprise.”

“Anne! You called! I was worried you wouldn’t be able to read my awful handwriting.” She laughs cheerfully, the sound like crystal glassware brought together for a toast before drinking. “I had to write with my left hand, obviously, and my head was so muddled, I wasn’t sure what actually made it onto the card. Elizabeth and James were both shocked when I told them what I’d done and teased me pretty much all the way home from the hospital, saying the drugs must have mucked with my sense of reason,” she says, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Anne leans against the frame of the window, suddenly at ease, and watches a pair of squirrels run circles up the trunk of the oak. Hinscliff, who’d been sleeping on the sill, now sits at rapt attention, his mouth and nose twitching rapidly, outdoor cat instincts still strong. A pair of crisscrossing plane tracks, high up, reminds her of a conference she’s attending in Vegas next weekend, her flight scheduled to leave Wednesday afternoon. “Well, we’re not alive if we don’t take the odd risk now and again, hmm?” She pauses, observing a certain kind of heat climbing her spine as she listens to Ann’s shallow breaths on the other end of the phone. “It only took me two tries to reach you, a small price. The first number I dialed made me wonder if you employed a bouncer at your residence though.” She chuckles, takes a few steps towards her desk, straightens a stack of papers, comes back to the window, scratches the cat between its ears. “At any rate, here we are.” She sighs, glad of the promise of something new.

A neighbor’s dog barks a dutiful alarm as the mechanical thwap of a weed whacker starts up. The twang of the country music album Marian’s playing drifts up the stairs, mingled with her sister’s laugh and the deeper baritone of her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Tom Beech. They’d all just finished brunch: toast with Marmite, soft-boiled eggs, fruit, coffee, white wine. Tom plying them with stories of the horses he trains at the university in town; Marian offering to fry bacon, refilling the tea pot, girlish in her flirting. Anne, a little bored, sat pondering the call she was about to make, rubbing her middle finger back and forth across the surface of the wine glass in her hand, an old habit.

It occurs to her that all the noise on the line is coming from her end, and she wonders where Miss Walker lives. Someplace quiet, apparently, the house no doubt sitting at quite a distance from any others. Perhaps one of the wealthier suburbs north of the city – a Tudor mansion, its façade hidden behind tall, manicured boxwoods. Or maybe a sprawling, grassy estate in the country with pastures for thoroughbreds to reach speed. She hopes Ann isn’t too isolated. “How are you faring?”

“Well enough. You’re kind to ask. It’s been hard to sleep, to find a comfortable position, so I just end up sleeping at random times here and there. Lizzie’s been great, practically waiting on me hand and foot. I think caretaking comes naturally to her, or maybe she’s just gotten good at it raising three kids.” She stops momentarily; Anne hears a door open. “We’ve been plowing our way through old family photos and movies we watched endlessly as kids.”

“Yes, Dr. Lister! You must come join us! You simply haven’t lived until you’ve seen Anne of Green Gables for the 500th time,” Elizabeth shouts from the background. Some fumbling and muffled laughter, then Ann’s voice in her ear again: “If you’re not busy-if you have time, would you join us for tea next weekend?” she asks, hope rising on the end of the question. “We would like to thank you. And I would invite you over sooner, but I’m afraid I’m not yet back to being reliable company. Chances are, I’d fall asleep at the table.”

Anne flushes. Paying a house call to Miss Walker is exactly the result she’d contemplated over brunch. “I’d love nothing more, Ann, truly. But I’ll be out of town next weekend. At a conference for work. Could we try for the following weekend?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m pretty busy at the moment. All these movies to watch and books to read and yes, of course, two weeks is fine.” Anne can picture the impish grin as she says this, her eyes mirthful. “Where are you going?”

“Vegas. The American Academy of Neurology’s hosting their annual conference and I’ve been asked to give a presentation on spine disorders, radiculopathy. I’d rather not go, but they’re flying me out and who knows? A bunch of nerve doctors drunk in Sin City – it should be entertaining, of nothing else.”

“And are you a person that likes to gamble, Dr. Lister?”

Anne thinks of the times her and Mariana had sex with Charles just a block down the street, picking up coffee. The late-night rounds of poker in grad school, sometimes wagering more than she could afford. “Well, when in Rome.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looks at her reflection in the mirror, assessing. “But I’ll try to stay out of trouble.”

“Only if you want. Sometimes we need a bit of trouble to shake us awake, I think, to make us pay attention again.”

“You’re exactly right,” Anne says, thinking how good she is at delivering these simple pearls of insight. They set a date two Saturdays out, 2 pm. Ann gives her an address in a zip code she doesn’t recognize, a code to a gate, and a good reason to figure out how to end things with Mary.

\---

The conference gives her time to rest and reset. She attends workshops, presents her research on nerve impingement disorders, networks and catches up with old classmates and colleagues, but in her free time, her thoughts are with Ann. On the last evening, feeling a touch raucous after catching Cirque du Soleil’s _O_ at the Bellagio and emptying several drinks at the hotel bar, she texts her from her room on the fourteenth floor.

_I just watched a bunch of gorgeous people in unbelievable physical shape do acrobatics in a giant pool of water. Only in Vegas! How are you?_

Anne waits a minute for a reply, staring out over the neon-punched strip lined with palm trees, high-rise hotels and bustling sidewalks. Everything outlandish, garish, overdone. The stars invisible, outshone by the man’s hydro-powered circus below. It leaves her feeling lonely, apart, somehow outside the normal social experience. To enjoy this false oasis in the desert, she must put logic aside, put her trust in the grand fantasy that human actions make no difference to the greater interactions of life. Watching the intricate displays of the fountains, she only sees the white-washed bathtub ring of Lake Mead, growing ever wider to meet the thirsty demands of the city. Such is progress, apparently.

The Listers have deep roots in England’s industrial revolution, gathering much of their wealth from operating mills and mining coal to feed the burgeoning canal and railway industries. Both were dirty businesses built, in large part, on the backs of children. Even through the family money is gone – Anne sank what little she inherited from her aunt into her education – she feels like she must atone, to some degree, for her ancestors’ role in contributing to the problems of income inequality and climate change facing society today. Marian began making amends by insisting that the family estate, Shibden Hall, which had been in Lister hands for generations, be turned over to a public trust upon their aunt’s death. It’s now a museum, the surrounding grounds a public park where families picnic and fly kites.

Aunt Anne. The pain of her passing still plagues her, especially on nights like these when she has time to think, to look back. At the funeral, she’d sat in the front pew between Marian and Tib, one of Anne’s oldest friends, the rest of the bench empty but the church full behind them. The scene was one of the most depressing she’d ever endured. Whenever she glanced at the crowd, she was greeted by a whole litany of former lovers looking at her with sad, sympathetic eyes from their seats at their husbands’ sides: Eliza, Mariana, Vere, Mrs. Brown, Sophie. She’d sung the hymns, recited the prayers, thrown the dirt, more like a mannequin than living flesh and blood. The deep, hard edges of her despair left her hollowed out, a collapsing shell with no shelter or safety to give.

The one thing her aunt had wanted was to see them both settled – her and Marian. Neither of them managed to give her that. It’s the single failure she couldn’t study, walk or negotiate her way out of. She feels the loneliness of her 46 years in her bones, knocking around at the rough knobs of her joints and between her head. Ann’s given her a reason to hope, to fantasize, but she’s like Tantalus when it comes to committed love - it’s an apple she’s grasped at for years without being able to taste. Anne reaches across her chest, rubs at a knot of tension in her trapezius, the long band of muscle tasked with supporting the head, a thankless job and often forgotten until trigger points of pain bring the tight fibers into focus. She rolls her head to the left, making a slow half circle around to the opposite side and back again. It doesn’t help. This knot festers somewhere remote, countless threads twisted together and pulled taught by dashed expectations and the effort of constantly rising above them. 

She checks her watch: 11:11. She’d forgotten about the time difference; Ann three hours ahead and likely long asleep. Swapping out her clothes for the crisp coolness of the hotel sheets, Anne sits back against the headboard and opens the copy of _Portrait of a Photographer_ she brought with her, a book about the influential 1960s artist Diane Arbus. Since Ann mentioned this woman’s work helped her resurface, she’s eager to learn more. She flips to the photographs in the center first, black and white pictures of identical twins, giants, circus performers, cross dressers, the elderly, people found on the fringes of society shown close up, in mundane settings – kitchen tables and park benches, living rooms and porch stoops. The photos are blunt with otherness and a duality she finds strangely relatable. She imagines Ann Walker must have, too. A bit of the swallow mentality resonates in the images, finding one’s place in a world predisposed to see you as inherently different.

Reading the bio on the inside cover, she learns that Arbus struggled with the guilt of privilege, having been born into a wealthy family. She spent her life trying to break free of that bubble, to experience and document a life unplanned, a grittier story of existence. Maybe Ann identifies with that fact as well. Depending on the person, a fortune can feel like imprisonment. After finishing the second chapter, Anne closes the book, her thoughts and eyelids sagging with fatigue. She flies east when the sun rises, back to the Work/Sleep Work/Sleep rhythm of her days. Only five repetitions to soldier through before glimpsing the sole star shining in her mind’s eye, the one she’s following back home, whose light burns hot in the lusty entrails of her corporeal form.


	7. O

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone tell me how to insert a top hat emoji on this platform? [top hat]  
Thanks for reading~

Her plane lands in a humid fog of heat. Anne can see it blistering off the runway, shimmering upwards in waves. Stepping out of the airport, a wall of hot air smacks her head on and she’s sweating down her front before she can shake out of her blazer. To say Ohio summers are oppressive is an understatement. The mixture of ninety-plus degree temperatures and high humidity levels often grind afternoons to a halt. The air is still, thick, lifeless. Walking feels more like wading, the moisture-rich air heavy, sticking to the skin, slowing evaporation. It gives Anne the impression that the city itself has transformed into a supersized stage for O, she and her fellow commuters unwitting acrobats performing roles they don’t have a script to.

Arriving home, she leaves her luggage in a heap by the door and stomps up the stairs, peeling off clothing as she climbs and thinking about the text she’d awoken to.

_Sounds exciting! Can’t wait to hear more about your trip. Not sure if you heard yet, but two kids vandalized a few of the ears in Dublin’s concrete field of corn… Only in Ohio! Doing much better and looking forward to Saturday._ 😉

Reading it again, she laughs picturing the statues of corn. She’d driven Marian across town to see “cornhenge” – the 109 eight-foot tall ears of concrete in the middle of a bland business district – soon after moving to Columbus. They’d wandered among the cobs, slightly delirious, not quite feeling the connection between the agricultural history of the site and the artificial representation surrounding them. But, like most art, it did make them think. Over dinner, Anne talked about how keen America seemed to plow under its past, how the abundance of land must induce attitudes of wild abandon rather than preservation. Why look back when the horizon is boundless?

She thumbs off another text – ending it with an emoji of a top hat, her signature – before showering, dressing and plunging back into work.

Riveting news! Ohio doesn’t get enough credit for keeping things interesting. Concrete corn, Rock N’ Roll, you… It’s a state with much to discover. I’ll see you very soon…if we don’t melt in the meantime… [top hat]

The week passes without incident. She gets home nightly around 8, joins Marian for dinner and a game of Scrabble before falling asleep leafing through books on landscapes, portraits, still life. Work/Sleep. Friday evening, judgement weakened by the heat, they substitute dessert for dinner, making the short walk to the ice cream parlor on High Street to indulge in cool, creamy bliss. They’d lapped in silence, letting the conversations of the kids and couples sitting at neighboring tables speak for them. Anne pokes Marian in the ribs when she stops halfway through her cone to hold her head in her hands, waiting for her brain to thaw. Work/Sleep. Going through the motions until.

Saturday. Dressed in fitted black pants and a sheer white button down, untucked and unbuttoned at the neck to welcome any passing breeze or an imaginative gaze, Anne powers up the Tesla and punches the address into the GPS. Twenty-five minutes away. It’s only five after one, so she drives to the carryout on the corner, selecting a bottle of Prosecco – liquid courage, if it gets to that. Anne tries to push away any expectation of intimacy; she should stop assuming every woman is gay until proven otherwise. It is possible Miss Walker is simply a kind, thoughtful person, the invitation to tea nothing more than a formality.

Lost in thought, the city skyline recedes into her rearview mirror and she finds herself speeding soundlessly down a two-lane road. Pastures and orchards are dotted with houses and barns. She sees men mowing between rows of apple trees, passes what appears to be a pick-up game of baseball being played amidst an indifferent herd of Holsteins. Another thing she loves about Columbus is that it only takes twenty minutes to leave it behind. The GPS alerts her that the destination is ahead on the right, and she turns onto an assuming gravel drive, two large sycamores – _Platanus occidentalis_ – stand like sentinels on either side. The road crosses a small stream, her tires rumbling over the wooden slats of the bridge, before reaching an iron gate. She punches in the code Ann gave her and it slowly winds open. Anne sees nothing but trees beyond. Driving forward, she enters an entirely different sphere of Walker. Dappled sunlight flits across her windshield. The sounds of a summer forest rush in through her open windows: beetles chirring; the scurrying of chipmunks and squirrels; twigs snapping; wind winding, never a silent player, through all.

After a minute, the trees give way to tall, wild grasses with brown seed heads rippling and swaying like a vast inland ocean. The house comes into view around a curve, perched on a tuft of uplifted land, a raft of domesticity. It looks more like a modern barn, it’s façade a white stop sign cut in half, large stall doors hung on rails thrown open to expose a glass front entry. The garden in front is free flowing, large clumps of coneflowers, black-eyed Susan and lavender rub shoulders with hydrangeas and butterfly bush. She spies rosemary, mint, thyme. It’s a fecund display of color buzzing with hummingbirds and fat bumblebees, everything drunk on nectar. Stepping out of the car, the heady floral aroma acts as an instant aphrodisiac. Anne walks along the stone path to the entry feeling fresh, enlivened. She’d expected a mansion but loves this affluence of life much more. She’s reminded that she knows very little about the woman waiting inside.

She rings the bell, marveling at the way the glass door reflects the vibrant colors of the garden. It’s easy to see that the home was built with a vision of respect for the landscape it inhabits, with aspirations of enhancing its natural beauty. James answers, welcoming her into a sunlit two-story foyer, and leads her through to the back of the house. Anne can’t help but glance around her as they go, family photos share wall space with landscape oil paintings, Chinese tapestry and shelves displaying vintage cameras. It’s an eclectic collection, weaving together motifs of agriculture, ancestry and artistry. Split-leaf philodendron and prickly pear cacti take up potted residence in bright corners. And then Ann’s before her, sitting at the end of a long table laden with fruit, cakes, charcuterie and spreads, a still life painter’s dream in a low-cut cotton dress patterned with pink English roses. Behind her, a long bank of floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a simple wooden deck and a pond just down the hill, its surface dark and twinkling in the sun. She gets up, delicately, and Anne hurries to her, puts the bottle of wine on the table before grasping her left hand in both of hers, face opening in her charismatic wide smile.

“Ann, it’s so good to see you. And what a charming house you keep! It’s absolutely delightful. Thank you for inviting me.”

“It’s my pleasure, truly. Thank you for making the trip! I know your days off must be few and far between.” She lets go of Anne’s hand and then leans in for a hug, holds it a beat longer than expected, causing Anne’s fingers to spread open against her back, gaining purchase, in response. Ann’s woody perfume fills her nostrils and she’s thrilled to know the place of its origin. “It means a lot,” she adds. They shift apart and Ann moves to sit back down, gesturing at the chair next to her, facing the windows. “I may have gone a little overboard on the provisions, but I wanted to make sure there was something you liked.” She glances at Anne, a blush playing across the freckles of her cheeks, and reaches for the tea pot.

“You needn’t of, I’ll enjoy most anything given the chance,” she says, winking, getting to the kettle first and pouring them each a cup. “Would you like a glass of bubbly, also? It’s so hot outside, I couldn’t resist picking some up.”

“How about we make mimosas? James squeezed some oranges just before you got here, so there’s fresh juice.”

“Perfect. Good idea.” Anne pops the cork on the Prosecco, making them both laugh as the bubbles foam down the sides of the bottle and onto the warm hardwood, dispensing any nervous tension that remained. They eat and talk easily, enjoying each other’s company and the intoxication that comes from an afternoon well spent. Hours pass like minutes. When the sun is low on the horizon, Anne takes fifteen minutes to walk down to and investigate the pond. She’s never been good at sitting still for long. When she comes back inside, she finds Ann reclined on the generous leather sofa in the living room, head propped on the arm panel, a new bottle of wine sitting on the coffee table. Anne squeezes her shoulder gently before sitting at the edge of her feet, crossing her legs to contain the passion collecting between them.

Ann seems to be well on her way to recovery. The swelling on her face has disappeared, the bruise reaching its final stage of yellowish-brown around the temple and under the eye as the body finishes reabsorption of blood. Anne knows pain lurks close to the surface, however. It’s evident in the way she cuts a laugh short if it gets too guttural, cradling her ribs, how she’d eaten almost exclusively with her left hand.

“You look well, Ann. Quite a lot better. I can’t believe how fast your contusion has healed.”

Ann’s eyes perform a slow roll, she sends up a puff of air that ruffles her bangs. “That’s all Lizzie’s doing. She really is a good caretaker, almost to the point of driving me crazy. She was adamant about the ice – she’d load me down with packs for twenty minutes every couple of hours until I thought I’d freeze to death.”

“I’m glad she was here to see you through the worst of it. When did she leave?”

“The Captain requested her presence back home Wednesday. Something about Sackville, my nephew, coming down with measles.” Another eye roll, this one spurred by a less loving emotion. “Why he couldn’t look after him for a few days. He can be so,” she searches for the right word, “I don’t know—domineering, at times.”

“Hmm, marriage. I imagine it can be difficult, all those years and quirks and differences piling up, making reason and logic the proverbial needles in a haystack. It’s not for the feint of heart.” Anne pauses, wanting to steer the conversation to a more intimate level. “Do you know what drew her to him in the first place?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She’s always gone for guys with strong chins, that smoke cigars, wear royal purple dinner coats with confidence and name their sons Sackville. I’ve always thought that just made him a bit of a pompous arse.” She smirks, lifts her glass and takes a sip, pulls her tongue down the front of her top incisors. “Have you ever been married?” she asks, curious eyes darting to meet hers.

“Me? No.” Anne sighs, her middle finger starting to tic a track across her wine glass. “I was engaged once, though that’s been some time since. We were in love, ready to settle down, or at least so I thought. But then,” she looks up, makes a gesture as if to encompass everything – the setting sun, the house, the pond, the trees beyond, the two of them, all of it – “but then it fell apart.” She’s silent a moment, pushes Mariana to the back of her mind, willing herself to stay present. “I would like to be married, someday,” she holds Ann’s gaze, “if the right person will have me.”

Ann doesn’t look away. Instead, she asks, “And what made you want to be a doctor?”

“Well, now that’s easy.” Anne throws an arm across the back of the couch, turns her shoulders towards Ann and leans in. This is her bread and butter conversation, what she lives for. She can convince almost anyone that the human brain is nature’s finest creation. “You see, I’ve always been fascinated with the brain, with trying to understand how neurons – the gray matter – dendrites and axons – the white matter – work. It’s all just dull-colored stuff up there in our heads, trillions of fibers, cells and synapses firing, receiving, intercepting, interpreting, endlessly. The brain is only two percent of our body weight, and yet,” again, she makes the all-encompassing gesture, “here we sit. In a house with indoor plumbing, central air, fine art, wine, wi-fi! Those hills and valleys of our cerebral cortex – the gyri and sulci – set us apart. They’re the substrate of our ability to create, to analyze, to feel loss, joy, love. When you think about it, it’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“When I was a kid,” she continues, “I felt so different. The girls in my grade played house, gossiped, braided each other’s hair. I was always out scrambling over the moor in Halifax, climbing trees, scraping my knees, a magnifying glass and guides on plants and insect identification in my rucksack. I knew how to shoot a gun and debone a duck by the time I was twelve. I read _Gray’s Anatomy_ and Homer’s _Odyssey_ for fun. I mean, I think that qualifies me as a bit odd! My aunt and father certainly thought so; they didn’t know what to make of me.” They both laugh, picturing her as a wild, gangly girl running amuck in the English countryside. She sits back, takes a drink, feels the wine loosening the screws of her inhibition but isn’t sure how much to reveal. She wants to come clean, to present her life, unadorned, at Miss Walker’s feet. She decides to gamble. “By fifteen,” she looks directly into Ann’s eyes, “I had my first crush. Her name was Eliza Raine.” Anne sucks in her breath, whistles low. “She was a very cute classmate of mine.”

Ann is silent, the only reaction an uptick of an eyebrow. A hand raised to the chest, perhaps out of surprise, more likely to hide a sudden ribbon of crimson. Anne soldiers on with a smile; she always does. “Growing up in the late seventies and early eighties, there weren’t the gay role models kids have today. Diversity wasn’t embraced, let alone celebrated – at least not in Halifax. Everything that didn’t ‘fit the model,’ she air quotes, “got swept under the rug. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent hours staring at myself in a mirror, wondering what was wrong with me. I didn’t feel sick or ill, but thought I was.” She stops, looks at the swallow on Ann’s arm, her eyes hot with confession and truth. “I hadn’t witnessed a path that led to loving and living with another woman. But, never one to go against my instincts, decided I’d have to make one.” In a room upstairs, a clock chimes the hour: 8:00. The sky is aflame in brilliant shades of pink and purple. Trying to breathe some levity back into the room, she catches Ann’s eyes again, says, “I picked neurology because I wanted to prove to myself, to everyone, that being gay is a natural—a biological condition. One we’re born with, like blue eyes or,” she points to her face, winks, “a wonky nose.”

Ann laughs cheerfully, the sound working like a salve on Anne’s nerves. “I try to stay out of hospital business beyond cutting a yearly check to the foundation. It just doesn’t interest me. But I know the board was excited when you got promoted to chief of the department. Talk of meeting diversity quotas and such. I just assumed it was because you were a woman.” One at a time, she swings her legs over the side of the couch, accepting Anne’s hand for support, until she’s sitting upright, just inches away. Their hands fall to the couch between them, each still holding the other. Looking ahead out the windows, her profile exquisite in the soft light, Ann says, “you know, when you walked into my room after the accident, you weren’t what I expected. You made me feel so much brighter, instantly, without even trying.” She turns her head, finds Anne’s eyes, the small yet seemingly infinite space between them electric with potential. 


	8. Chapter 8

“Could I show you something?” Ann asks.

Anne tilts her head, intrigued, nods her consent. She would like to show Miss Walker many things. The stamina of her tongue and its innate skills in and around the contours of the female body, for example. The latent pleasure her long, expressive fingers can induce, and educe, for another. And later, much later, beyond the bedroom, she’d like to show her Shibden, the hillside of cornflowers that matches Ann’s eyes, the Pyrenees and the Carnevale in Rome. But she would also appreciate being shown things: the extent of the estate; the morning sun on the ocean of grass; the physical boundaries of their kinetic relationship. Her eyes slide down their sockets, landing on the inverted triangle of skin, pale and freckled, above Ann’s dress. Yes, she would like to see beneath the plunge of the fabric there, too. “Shall I wait here?”

“No, you’ll have to come with me,” she says, eyes emboldened with the power of anticipation she wields. Her hand slides free as she finds her way to vertical – hesitantly, pain still plucking through the A-delta and C-nerve fibers – and beckons Anne to follow. They make a slow passage to the staircase off the foyer. Anne grabs her purse from the entry table – she needs to tell Marian not to wait up for her – and then helps Ann mount the steps, an arm low on her back for support, their hands reunited. As they ascend, Anne feels desire ratchet, vertebrae by vertebrae, up her spine.

At the top, an open door to the right reveals what appears to be a studio. A line of string zigzags in lazy U's across the ceiling in one corner, photographs secured to it with clothespins. Anne spies a backdrop, several different lighting mechanisms, and a clutter of chairs and stools before Ann pulls her in the opposite direction. She loves the gentle tug, the not knowing. Rarely does she relinquish control, surrender to someone else’s plan. Her limbic system responds with a rush of serotonin, exciting and furthering her cortical arousal. Suddenly, the narrow slopes of Ann’s shoulder blades leading into the smooth valley of her back, her beautifully exposed neck, are the sole focus of her attention. Anne feels a familiar cloying tightness, a longing to consume and be full.

Ann stops in front of her. Forcing her eyes up, she sees the point of their voyage: hanging on the wall in front of them is the photo of the red chair. Enlarged, Anne notices details she couldn’t make out on the computer screen. Wanting to see everything clearly, she reaches in her bag for her glasses – she’s helplessly farsighted, in life as much as sight. The tuxedoed figure is a woman – Anne was right – her feminine features apparent in the length of the eyelashes and soft bridge of the nose. Her expression reminds Anne of a sly arctic fox about to pounce on prey buried beneath the snow. Up close, the nude blond sitting on her lap is the definition of stimulated: her areolae swollen at the tips of blue-tinted breasts; lips moist and parted; pupil’s large; her back arched against the gloved hand holding her in place. The pair is showcased in a warm draft of light from above, making them appear isolated in their passion except for the woman in the tuxedo, who stares right into the camera, her confidence stirring sexual appeal outside the frame.

It isn’t often Anne struggles to find words, and she knows Ann is watching her, waiting for a reaction. She runs a hand through her hair, adjusts the collar of her shirt, willing any words other than “fuck me” to surface in her brain. She’s equal parts turned on and crushed by the photo, by the memory it evokes of the trip to the art museum with her aunt and subsequently, by her aunt’s kindness when she tried, days later, to tell her how the painting made her feel. That was her first foray into coming out; the first time she stumbled through vocalizing her sexual attraction. She puts a hand on the wall to steady herself, hating the alcohol for lubricating her emotions.

“Anne? Are you all right?”

Blinking back the sting of tears, she turns to face Miss Walker. “Yes,” it’s just—you’re good. The photo, I mean, is very good. You have an eye.” She glances at the picture again to avoid the searching look of concern on Ann’s face, clears her throat. “Are there more?” she asks.

Ann nods, accepting the diversion. She leads them into a luxurious bedroom with French doors opening onto a screened-in balcony and an en suite bath with a large soaker tub. Ivy cascades down the sides of baskets hung in front of the windows. Piles of books, spines askew, litter the floor like cairns, marking the path of a woman under orders not to overdo it. Thick, wood planks make up the ceiling, which slants and folds in, cozily, over a built-in platform bed. A collection of crystals – fire agate, amethyst, black tourmaline – and a salt lamp sit on a shelf beside the bed. The décor is bohemian but not overdone: a woven tapestry covers one wall; layered rugs of varying textures and patterns cover the floor. Anne circles the room, looking at the various keepsakes and mementos while Ann opens the doors, pulls a portfolio from a bookshelf, and tosses a few pillows on the floor to make room for them on the bed. She settles back against the headboard and pats the empty space next to her. Anne, hardly believing her luck, stands awkwardly for a second twisting the ring on her index finger before kicking off her shoes and sidling in.

Ann talks her through the first few pages, explaining how she finds inspiration in bringing classic paintings of women to life, often adding a modern spin. She tells how she grew up surrounded by art, her parents obsessed with the buying and selling of it. How as a child, she spent many afternoons in Sotheby’s and the lesser-known London auction houses, watching her father spend fortunes with a simple flick of his wrist, observing how fine clothes and underlying ruthlessness often go hand in hand.

Anne settles deeper into the stack of pillows behind them, enjoying the lilting timbre of Ann’s stories, watching her lips wrap around the words as she articulates her love of art and her family. It’s been a happy day; Miss Walker far surpassing her meager expectations. Tree crickets and katydids sing their anthems outside, punctuated by the occasional croak of a mate-seeking bull frog. She can no longer ignore her physical need. Her body feels like the north pole of a magnet, attracted and straining to be connected to its opposite. As casually as she can, she moves her hand across the bed until the back of it rests against Ann’s upper thigh.

Misreading her intention, Ann says nervously: “I’m sorry. You must be so bored listening to me prattle on. You’re too kind to keep me company for what?” She looks at the clock across the room, does the math. “Seven hours! I’ve kept you hostage for far too long.” She closes the portfolio, unstraps and straps the Velcro on her splint, fidgeting.

“What? No! Quite the opposite. I was just thinking what a nice day it’s been, and…”

“Oh,” relief unfolds the creases in her brow. She smiles shyly. “And what?”

Anne sits up, folds her knees in and turns around on the bed so that she’s facing Ann. She puts her hand on Ann’s leg, fingers grasping the shallow indentation on either side above the kneecap and takes a long look at her lips before meeting her eyes. “And how much I’d like to kiss you,” she finishes, her voice low, lusty.

Ann looks at her steadily. Reaching up with her left hand, she removes Anne’s glasses, folding the temples in one at a time against her chest – click, click – and places them on the bedside table. It’s a measured movement undertaken with intimacy and confidence and Anne, feeling stripped, blushes. “If you did, I wouldn’t stop you.”

\---

Anne awakens to the sound of wind gusting through trees. The room is dark, a silky blackness foreign to her after so many nights in the city. She senses Ann next to her, a sleeping form heavy in repose. “Good lord,” Anne mutters to herself, incredulous at the unexpected turn of events. Carefully rolling to the far side of the bed, she stands up, feels her way to the chair where she dropped her purse and takes out her phone. She finds her shirt at the end of the bed, stuffs her arms into the sleeves and pads barefoot to the balcony. It’s just after one; she’s missed two messages. The first from her sister: a winky face followed by emojis of a rose, a heart and a thumbs up. Anne rolls her eyes in half-hearted annoyance – she should never have told her about this visit possibly turning into a date. The second is from Mariana, sent about 11 pm:

_Charles gone. I miss you. Come over? _

She’s glad to have missed it, to have been enjoyably occupied by someone else. Lightning splits the sky, revealing the pond – its’ surface frothy, wind-lashed – and the surrounding fields in a momentary flash. Anne counts eight seconds before the rumble of distant thunder reverberates off the side of the house. She stands in the breeze of the approaching storm, feeling the barometric pressure drop as the buttons of her shirt flap gently against her chest. Summer storms in the Midwest can be apocalyptic. The best ones begin with massive shelf clouds riding low on the horizon, gunmetal grey and menacing as they inch across the landscape, harbingers of destruction. As the cloud nears, the wind becomes frenetic, tangling hair and lifting skirts, rattling windows and slamming gates. At this point, anyone still outside has approximately five seconds to find shelter before rain falls in horizontal sheets, blanketing streets and overflowing gutters. And sometimes, if the dimensions of the storm become supersized, the tornado sirens will start up, one suburb’s warning causing a chain reaction until there’s a solid wall of wailing echoing in every nook and cranny of the house. Accompanied by violent smacks of lightening and cracks of thunder, the sound is enough to drive even the bravest to their bathtubs and basements, flashlights in hand. Anne respects the chaos, appreciates weather for reminding her that ultimately, she’s not in control.

As the rain starts to patter on the tin roof above, she thinks about Ann removing her glasses, reaching up to take her face in her palm, thumb gently stroking her cheekbone, stoking fires further down. She wasn’t in control then, either. Not mentally at least. Something primordial, ancient, gripped them as they kissed passionately, Anne biting her lower lip, leaving marks on her neck and in the flats below her collarbone as Ann moaned in pleasure. Pain, too. Love is nothing if not an act of handing over the reins, putting oneself in a position to be saddled, ridden, whipped. She hunches her shoulders, relishing the twinge of raw skin on her right shoulder blade where Ann’s nails had just begun to scrape the surface of her craving. They hadn’t gone all the way – Anne too worried about impacting healing bones – but they’d had a taste of their chemistry, an encouraging experiment of tongues and touches.

Another bolt strikes just down the hill, breaking the pairs of nitrogen and oxygen atoms in the atmosphere and making the hairs on Anne’s arms stand to attention. The smell of ozone, like burning electrical wires, fills the air. Thunder booms instantaneously, a tawny lion roaring in her ears. She retreats inside, closing the doors behind her to dampen the noise.

“Anne?” a shaky voice calls out in the dark.

“I’m here.” She uses the frequent flashes outside to find her way to the side of the bed where Ann’s sitting up, rigid with eyes wide. “The wind woke me up and I went outside to listen. What’s the matter?” she asks, lifting Ann’s chin before running both hands down the side of her arms, stopping at the bend of the elbows.

“Nothing. It’s just—I thought you’d left.” Ann grasps her neck, pulls her close. Her shallow, unsteady breaths ruffle the ends of Anne’s hair. Lightning cracks again, causing the crystals on the shelf to vibrate and Ann to tighten her grip, her hand turning cool and clammy.

“Ann.” She breaks free of her hold, concerned by her ragged breathing and rapid heartbeat. “Are you alright?”

She drops her head to the side so Anne can’t see her expression. “I-I can’t bear storms,” she confesses in a whisper. “They’re so loud and unpredictable. They scare me.”

She climbs over Ann’s legs and stretches out along her side, lifts her arm as an invitation for Ann to relax beside her. “Come here,” she says. Gingerly, Ann lays back down and Anne hitches a leg across her knees, places a comforting hand on her chest and kisses her shoulder. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” She strokes Ann’s hair, pushing the wavy locks away from her face slowly, repeatedly, until she can feel Ann’s breath normalize. “Thunderstorms are one of the most common weather occurrences on the planet. Did you know something like 100 lightning bolts strike the Earth every second? It’s unreal. They’re just the natural response of two air masses with different densities colliding. Like the dust up that occurs when a Conservative Party bloke and a Labour Party bloke end up sitting next to each other at the bar after too many beers.” She senses Ann smile, hears her head turn on the pillow.

“You’re so clever. How do you know so much about everything?” She props herself up on an elbow, caresses Ann’s shoulder. She’s so available and forthcoming with compliments, a stark contrast to Mariana. “Well, I only know bits and pieces about certain things – I suppose from lots of reading and getting lost in Wikipedia rabbit holes. That’s probably why my eyes are so bad. I used to go to a regular trivia night with a few friends, too, and every so often a fact would stick with me through the margheritas.” She laughs, remembering the heated debates she, Steph and Catherine would have trying to settle on an answer to a question none of them had a clue about. “But don’t ask me about pop culture.” She cuts a line through the air, shakes her head. “I can’t keep up.”

“Oh really? Well you’ll have to invite me next time you play,” she says matter-of-factly, “that’s my strong suit.”

Anne chuckles, of course it is. “Are you asking me on a date, Miss Walker?” she teases, brushing fingertips over the crest of her hip bone, down the top of her thigh and back again, gripping her waist to withstand a fresh swell of urgency. The rain tattooing the roof overhead is deafening, drowning everything in her head but immediate, tactile sensations.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Ann replies with a slight lift of her chin and a thin smile that Anne covers instantly with her mouth, diving in, leaving the helm to spin freely in the storm.


End file.
